


Barbarism Begins At Home

by borys



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Past Child Abuse, fluff if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borys/pseuds/borys
Summary: A crack on the headIs what you get for not askingAnd a crack on the headIs what you get for asking
Relationships: Amanda De Santa/Michael De Santa
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Barbarism Begins At Home

Amanda is not scared of Michael.

Nor has she ever been, really. Her girlfriends in Los Santos always titter nervously whenever he comes home while they’re drinking martinis in the kitchen, chattering like birds. If he pops his head in to say hi or ask where Tracey and Jimmy are, their eyes dart to the sides nervously, waiting for Amanda’s answer to his question.

When he goes upstairs and they’re all sure they hear the click of the bedroom door, they cast looks at Amanda, as if to ask, “Why him?”

She’s not sure what they have to be afraid of. Michael isn’t a particularly imposing figure, aging and thick in the middle and not extraordinarily tall, often drunk enough to be toppled over in the wind. They’ve never seen him act as crazy as Amanda knows he is, only heard about their legendary (but never violent) fights.

Back when she first moves to Los Santos, after a night of dinner and drinks, of her yoga friends slipped her a pamphlet for a domestic violence hotline and told her that she shouldn’t suffer alone. She laughed in her face and told her that Michael was about as likely to hit her as their lawn furniture was. Her friend had looked at her doubtfully. 

But Michael had never laid a hand on her, and especially not on any of the children. She had egged him on to do it, when they were having a particularly rough fight and they were both drunk. She would say, “You’re mad at Jimmy? Go on over and hit him. I know you want to.” But he looked at her as if she had just betrayed him, and the look made something inside of her wither.

Her children, as much as they hated their father, knew they were always safe with him. When Michael fought with either of them, they got in his face, nose-to-nose, and said the cruelest things they could. It was more likely for Tracey to hit him than the other way around. And when she did, which was a couple times in her early teenagehood, he would go into their bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and scream into a pillow until his voice cracked like TV static. 

Michael had even refused to spank their children. Amanda had assumed he would. When Tracey did her first grievous toddler misdeed, purposefully knocked over a framed picture on the kitchen table and got shattered glass stuck deep in the carpet, Amanda had looked at her husband expectantly. He looked back at her, not even comprehending what she wanted him to do.

This open, genuinely misunderstand look made her self conscious of the question. “Well, Michael, aren’t you going to... you know? Spank her?”

The same look. Betrayed, tinted with anger like a purple sunset going red. “No, and you’re not going to either. Just fucking talk to her, yell at her, I don’t give a fucking shit. But if you touch her, I’m gonna throw your ass outside.” 

Amanda blinked. They had been together for 3 years now, she had given birth to their second child two weeks before. And she had never seen this controlled, spacey rage of his, something hiding behind something hiding behind something else. 

And she listened to him, for once. She yelled at Tracey until they both cried, and then they all curled up in bed with Jimmy in his crib next to them and ate popcorn and watched Tracey’s favorite Hello Kitty show until they all dozed off. Amanda really felt happy then. 

They weren’t perfect back then, but they had something they lost somewhere between Canada and the United States. She thought it might still be there, sweeping across the empty streets at night like a plastic bag. 

One night, when Tracey was 6 and Jimmy was 4, finally sleeping through the night, Amanda slotted herself in Michaels arms while they watched TV. She looked up at him. “Michael, did your parents hit you?”

When those words left her lips, she was scared for the worst. But he just drew her into his arms more, reflections from the television flickering across the glossiness of his eyeballs, and said. “Yep.” Short, one syllable that was almost able to be missed.

“I’m sorry.” Amanda whispered, reaching up one hand to the nape of his neck, running her fingers along his hairline there. “I…” She trailed off. In truth, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know every grisly detail. But she knew Michael was not that man.

“Not your fault.” He said. “Was a long time ago. And, y’know. Shit you get used to.”

How often did something have to happen for you to get used to it? 

“Your mom? Or dad? Both?” She said. She knew she was a nosy person at heart.

“Dad. Drunk, sometimes. Sometimes just an asshole.” His answers were misty, short, and serious. He didn’t seem to want to change the subject, but Amanda didn’t know how it made him feel, really.

“Just hitting?” She ventured. 

He suddenly went dead quiet, not even breathing. 

“He hurt me pretty bad, Mandy.” He said eventually. “I just don’t know what you want me to tell you.” She didn’t know either. She just wanted to be inside his head for once.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Michael relaxing a bit until they were truly cuddling, her face pressed against his chest, their legs twisted together. 

“Mom never left him. Always watched.” He stated. It was in a final, broken way that made Amanda turn away from the TV and fully fold her body into his. 

She wanted to tell him that he deserved better, that nobody deserves that, that she loved him more now than she ever had before. But she didn’t. She just tucked her face into the crook of his neck and tried to make him know it all without her having to say it.

**Author's Note:**

> i will continue to write fanfiction for this dead fandom for the forseeable future bc fanfic helps my writing get better, and this is basically the only thing im into like that. also i was abused as a child and writing fic about child abuse is better than therapy
> 
> title from a song of the same name by the smiths


End file.
